Yet she somehow escaped awkwardness. There was something
in her movements that made you think she never walked but always
danced. She had been much petted and was a wee bit spoiled, but still
the general opinion was that Rilla Blythe was a very sweet girl, even
if she were not so clever as Nan and Di.

Miss Oliver, who was going home that night for vacation, had boarded
for a year at Ingleside. The Blythes had taken her to please Rilla who
was fathoms deep in love with her teacher and was even willing to share
her room, since no other was available. Gertrude Oliver was
twenty-eight and life had been a struggle for her. She was a
striking-looking girl, with rather sad, almond-shaped brown eyes, a
clever, rather mocking mouth, and enormous masses of black hair twisted
about her head. She was not pretty but there was a certain charm of
interest and mystery in her face, and Rilla found her fascinating. Even
her occasional moods of gloom and cynicism had allurement for Rilla.
These moods came only when Miss Oliver was tired. At all other times
she was a stimulating companion, and the gay set at Ingleside never
remembered that she was so much older than themselves. Walter and Rilla
were her favourites and she was the confidante of the secret wishes and
aspirations of both. She knew that Rilla longed to be "out"--to go to
parties as Nan and Di did, and to have dainty evening dresses and--yes,
there is no mincing matters--beaux! In the plural, at that! As for
Walter, Miss Oliver knew that he had written a sequence of sonnets "to
Rosamond"--i.e., Faith Meredith--and that he aimed at a Professorship
of English literature in some big college. She knew his passionate love
of beauty and his equally passionate hatred of ugliness; she knew his
strength and his weakness.

Walter was, as ever, the handsomest of the Ingleside boys. Miss Oliver
found pleasure in looking at him for his good looks--he was so exactly
like what she would have liked her own son to be. Glossy black hair,
brilliant dark grey eyes, faultless features. And a poet to his
fingertips! That sonnet sequence was really a remarkable thing for a
lad of twenty to write. Miss Oliver was no partial critic and she knew
that Walter Blythe had a wonderful gift.

Rilla loved Walter with all her heart. He never teased her as Jem and
Shirley did. He never called her "Spider." His pet name for her was
"Rilla-my-Rilla"--a little pun on her real name, Marilla. She had been
named